


Every Scar (Will Build Our Throne)

by ElloPoppet



Series: WinterHawk Bingo Square Fills - 2019 [5]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Avengers Compound, Awesome Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Fluff, Getting Together, Insecurity, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Shirtless, Shooting Range, WinterHawk Bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 15:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21101744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: “You can at least take your glove off, you know. Press can’t peek into the windows of the compound and I’m well aware of what’s under there.”The tone of the conversation shifted. Hell, the thickness of the air itself became heavier, and Clint bit the insides of his cheeks to avoid instantly apologizing for bringing it up. The fact of the matter was that Bucky had been at the compound with them for nearly a year at this point, and had never, not a single time, had his prosthetic out in the open.





	Every Scar (Will Build Our Throne)

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for Winterhawk BINGO 2019.

Clint was certain that everyone else must have noticed. It couldn’t be just him, not with Natasha (super-spy assassin), Bruce (always observant science-man), and Steve (Bucky’s best friend, brother-from-another-mother level) on his team. No, they must have noticed. But nobody was _saying_ anything about it, and it was starting to drive Clint up a goddamn wall. 

Clint used to try to hide the fact that his hearing was fucked. SHIELD did their best to comply with his request for the smallest, most covert aids possible; he had really appreciated the few pairs that they had provided for him that had doubled as his comms. Hell, even when the team started to loosely form, Tony having read his file and deciding to take lead on designing Clint’s hearing aids, Clint was still asking him to make them unnoticeable. 

He didn’t remember quite when, but one day he had decided to say _futz it_ and had requested that Tony design him a sleek but metaphorically loud pair of bright purple, glittering hearing aids. He wore them until they inevitably broke on mission, after which he requested the same pair. Again, and again, and again. He was relatively certain that Tony had a back stash by this point...or he should, if he were smart (which he was). 

Nobody on the team had said a goddamn thing about the fact that he couldn’t hear. He had been naive, perhaps, to imagine that none of them knew. They had access to each other’s files, for chrissake. If anything, after he started flaunting his deafness, things became easier for him because, as it would so happen, he shared quarters with a bunch of considerate motherfuckers. Everyone now knew to check for his aids first before speaking, making sure to stand in front of Clint if he was going without so that he could read lips. Slowly, he noticed the others casually tossing out bits of signing here and there; thank you, and please, goodnight, you’re an asshat (that one was Tony). 

And Clint couldn’t deny that it had been incredibly amusing to explain hearing aid tech to Thor, who was perplexed as to why Clint’s hearing wasn’t simply fixed with magic. Clint had thrown back a few brews while Thor had held one of his aids in his hand, turning it over and over, marveling at how “powerful yet tiny” it was. It had been a good night that had ended in fits of drunken giggles on Clint’s part, and a wide grin from Thor as he slung Clint over his shoulder to carry him back to his own apartment. 

Asgardian Ale. It was...something. 

Not to mention the explosion of positive press that had come about after the first time Clint had worn his brightly colored aids to a press conference. Clint’s fan mail increased tenfold, with letters pouring in from the deaf and hard of hearing community, including kids and parents of kids in the community, and fuck it if Clint didn’t tear up at some of them. 

Basically, getting over his insecurity about being a badass with a disability had been one of the best things Clint had ever done, and he struggled to remember why he had felt insecure in the first place. (Well, actually, that was some bullshit. He knew that he used to perceive it as weakness, had been told by Barney and a few other assholes that this was the case. Internalization was a bitch, but that was something that he had addressed with his SHIELD appointed shrink after Loki. He swore that conversation had started about pizza; even though he hadn’t been in therapy for a few years, he still insisted that the shrink had to have been some kind of sorceress.)

_That’s why,_ Clint thought to himself as he shoveled half a pancake into his mouth at the breakfast table, eyes locked on the man sitting across from him, _that’s why it’s bothering me so much. Fuckin’ Barnes._

“Hey Bucky, wanna shoot a few rounds later? I’m feelin’ a bit rusty with the semi-autos,” Clint said with forced nonchalance, keeping his focus on the mound of pancakes still sitting on his plate in front of him. “Plus, I gotta burn off some of these calories, since Steve is insisting on trying to make me pudgy.”

“Nobody told you to take the whole stack, Clint!” Steve called from the living room. Clint scoffed, and Bucky shook his head in amusement. 

“You? Feelin’ rusty with a weapon? What’s the set up, Barton?” Bucky asked, standing to take his dishes to Steve’s kitchen. Clint cursed under his breath. 

“You wound me. Maybe I just wanna shoot with someone as competent as I am?” He tried, wondering if a stroke to Bucky’s ego might work. Bucky’s head popped back into the room, a feral looking grin stretched across his face. 

“You’re on. As competent as you with an M16? That’s a fuckin’ insult,” Bucky said. “Prepare to eat those words, Clint.”

Clint celebrated internally. “We’ll see,” he said coolly. “See you in fifteen?”

“Make it ten!” Bucky called from the kitchen, water running in the sink. 

Clint smiled to himself. Spur of the Moment Operation Bucky was a go. 

*

Clint was not always the most patient person. He was when he needed to be, of course; not even his own discomfort at being still would overrule his need to accomplish a mission successfully. He treated this range practice with Bucky much the same; timing was everything here. He didn’t want to be too pushy, too quickly, too...anything that people often accused him of being. So he waited for the right opportunity to slide his concerns into the conversation as he and Bucky took a break for water. 

“Aren’t you burning up in that?” Clint asked before taking a gulp from his water bottle. He nodded toward the hoodie that Bucky was wearing, which was indeed soaked with sweat around the collar. “It’s like a million degrees in here.”

Bucky shrugged. “Nah. ‘m fine,” he responded, using his gloved left hand to push his hair back twice in a row, the tangled waves difficult to tame when sweaty. Clint reached into the pocket of his sweats and pulled out a hair tie, tossing it Bucky’s way. Bucky caught it swiftly. 

“Oh. Thanks.” Two milliseconds later, his hair was up in a weird half ponytail thing that Clint was sure probably had a proper name, but not one that he would know in a million years. “Why are you carrying around hair ties?”

Clint fought against the wave of heat that he could feel creeping up his throat, toward his cheeks. Uh. He hadn’t thought that through. Rather than telling Bucky that he always kept a spare around in case Bucky needed one, Clint shrugged and avoided via the age-old tactic of redirection. 

“You can at least take your glove off, you know. Press can’t peek into the windows of the compound and I’m well aware of what’s under there.” 

The tone of the conversation shifted. Hell, the thickness of the air itself became heavier, and Clint bit the insides of his cheeks to avoid instantly apologizing for bringing it up. The fact of the matter was that Bucky had been at the compound with them for nearly a year at this point, and had never, not a single time, had his prosthetic out in the open. Sweaters, hoodies, gloves, long sleeved dress shirts for charity events, robes, flannels...regardless of weather, regardless of sweltering temperature or sun exposure. Clint knew that Bucky could swim with it, having learned that bit after asking if it was waterproof...but Clint was also aware that Bucky only used the pool when the rest of them were asleep, and that he kept the pool door locked and coded. 

Nobody said anything about it, but Clint couldn’t stand it anymore. There had to be something there, some level of discomfort or insecurity, and Bucky was much too valuable...too beautiful...too important and awesome and amazeballs to feel anything less than...important and awesome and amazeballs. 

So Clint? He decided to try. 

“I’m done here,” Bucky said quietly but not unkindly. A simple dismissal, a near plea for Clint to leave it alone. “That was fun, Clint. Thanks.” Bucky turned to walk away, sending off a quick salute, and Clint was frozen in place for a moment before making a decision. 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Buck. You’re not exactly hiding the fact that you’re hiding. I just wanna let you know that you really don’t have to, is all. Not with me, at least. If you don’t...want to hide, anymore.”

Bucky had stopped to listen, and that was something. Clint didn’t mind that he hadn’t turned around, because Clint wasn’t exactly great at this, at this...vulnerability thing. He watched a bit of tension ooze out of Bucky’s stance, his shoulders falling slightly. 

“10-4, Clint,” Bucky said, and walked out of the range. 

Clint let out a breath, remembered something that his creepily magical therapist had said to him about “planting seeds,” and turned to empty one more clip into the target closest to the ceiling. 

Bullseye. 

*

It wasn’t unusual for Clint to go a stretch of time without seeing some of the others. Unless the country or the planet was being threatened as a whole, often only one or a few of them would be assigned to missions, and so they were in and out of the compound randomly. He worked most often with Steve and Nat, Bucky typically mirroring Clint’s sniper position on missions with Tony and occasionally Wanda, depending on what was happening. 

Even so, it wasn’t normal for Clint to go weeks without running into Bucky. Not to mention that neither of them had been on mission for days, according to Friday. 

Bucky was avoiding him, and as much as Clint tried to swallow down the hurt, he found it impossible to do so. He and Bucky were _friends,_ dammit, and it had taken them months to get there. Months of sparring, range practice, and Clint teaching Bucky how to scroll through memes on the internet. Months of having each other’s backs in high stakes situations, of Bucky exposing Clint to old-timey music while Clint showed Bucky every Speed movie in the franchise. Nat aside, Bucky was Clint’s go-to, his sure thing when he needed to be distracted. 

Bucky knew what it was like to have lost his mind in the most literal sense. While they had never directly talked about it, Clint knew that the mutual understanding thrummed between them and created a bond that helped knit them together. It was nearly enough to make Clint grateful for having had the experience with Loki. If it hadn’t resulted in loss of life, maybe it would have been enough, Clint often thought. 

Progress was progress. Planting seeds. 

Never mind that Clint knew full well that there was more than friendship there, for him. Clint’s history of relationships with women was filled with disaster after disaster, often built on lust and awe of their power, strengths, and abilities rather than any kind of mutual connection. Love, if Clint had ever actually experienced it, was as easily avoided as the plague for Clint and had been for years. Which was why it was somewhat surprising when the person to awaken that feeling of affection within Clint was James Buchanan Barnes himself. 

The gender thing? It was a non-issue. Clint gave himself room to panic, to have the sexuality crisis that he expected when he started to recognize the feeling of falling whenever Bucky’s lips stretched into a smile or a smirk. It never came, however. Bucky was goddamn gorgeous; those lips, eyes that betrayed every little thing (if you were paying attention, which suffice to say was something that Clint was _always_ doing), the hair that Clint ached to touch, the lithe strength that poured off of Bucky in waves. It was more than lust; Clint thought about running his hands over the flesh of Bucky’s spine as frequently as he thought about fucking him. He thought about stroking the palm of Bucky’s hands; both of them, and the thought made his heart squeeze sweetly. 

It also wasn’t pure awe that Bucky inspired in him, but something more genuine. Was Bucky an incredible powerhouse of a fighter, sniper, hero? Obviously, and Clint respected that, was indeed in awe of some of the shit that Bucky could pull off. But Clint also reveled in the feeling of comfort and safety that drew over him like a blanket when Bucky was around, when he was the focus of Bucky’s attention. And he made Clint fucking _die_ laughing, lungs on fire and air escaping his lungs with how hard Bucky could get Clint going with just a facial expression or a handful of words. 

Clint was so fucking gone that he could barely stand a day away from Bucky.

It could be said that Bucky continued to sense Clint’s needs impeccably, because after 23 days of not seeing each other, Clint was starting to feel the need to climb out of his own skin. Before turning the lights off and hitting the hay in the early hours of the morning, Clint promised himself that he would seek Bucky out after waking. He couldn’t have fucked up enough to cause a rift large enough to end what they had built. He just...he couldn’t have. And if he had, it could possibly count as one of the worst fuck ups of Clint’s life, and Clint had led a life full of them. 

An hour after Clint had flopped into bed, Friday spoke into his ears, alerting him that Bucky was at his door. Clint was so surprised that he couldn’t even decide what kind of joke to make when he opened the door, and so he didn’t. When he pulled his door open, he was silent as he looked at Bucky and waited. 

“Can I come in?” Bucky asked, voice betraying nothing, eyes betraying a fear so deeply felt that Clint’s heart cracked. Bucky hugged himself, baggy black hoodie making him look small, and it took everything for Clint to avoid throwing his arms around Bucky and holding him until the end of time. Instead, Clint stepped back and Bucky walked in. Clint shut the door behind them and then there they stood, facing each other, arms crossed over their chests. Clint belatedly realized that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, which was fine but also made this moment seem incredibly unbalanced. 

“I missed you,” Clint said, though he had meant to say something else that he forgot immediately when the other words left his mouth. He winced and shut up hard enough that his teeth clacked together. 

Bucky groaned, exasperated. “God, you are such a dick,” he said, eyes closed, flesh hand pinching the bridge of his nose. Without changing his stance or opening his eyes, Bucky extended his left arm straight out, gloved fingers nearly brushing Clint’s chest. 

“Uhh,” Clint supplied helpfully. 

“You’re gonna have to do it,” Bucky spat out, words quick and running together. “I’m not gonna be able to, but I. You’re a pain in my ass Barton but you’re not often wrong about things, which is real annoying. So I thought about what you said in the range and here I am. So take my glove off and I swear if you make a single joke or if you jab at me-”

“Fuckin’ never,” Clint stuttered out, not wanting to give Bucky the time to change his mind, which was counter-intuitive to what he asked next. “You sure, Buck?”

Bucky made a nudging motion with his hand, egging Clint on with it. His eyes were still closed, but Clint wouldn’t doubt it if Bucky could hear how hard his heart was pounding beneath his rib cage. 

Clint reached up and took Bucky’s left hand in both of his, as gently as possible, and Bucky remained still as Clint unclasped the snap at Bucky’s wrist, just under the cuff of his hoodie sleeve. Clint tugged at the black leather glove, freeing one finger at a time until Bucky’s prosthetic fingers gleamed up at him, the glove promptly set on the counter beside them. 

Clint wasn’t at all surprised at the appearance of the shining metal. Once Bucky had attacked Steve in the helicarrier ages ago, the Winter Soldier had been on their radar and they had been through files, footage, photographs. Clint knew full well what to expect, visually. 

What he didn’t expect was the warmth of the metal beneath his fingertips as he replaced both of his hands, one on top of Bucky’s hand and the other cupping his palm below. Clint slowly rotated the prosthetic so that it was palm up, and he experimentally pressed his palm against the curve of Bucky’s. It was well replicated, the curve of it, and so smooth. 

Clint looked up, trying to parse out what to say, the words dying on his tongue when he met Bucky’s eyes, wide open and staring. 

“You,” Bucky said. He cleared his throat. “You don’t think it’s ugly?” 

Clint shook his head. “No. I don’t. Is that what you were afraid of, all this time? That we would think your arm is ugly, or unattractive?”

Bucky shook his head almost violently, curling his fingers around Clint’s hand. “I don’t give a shit if it’s attractive or not. There’s no way it can be, I get that. But what this piece of me, what it represents? It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, on anyone. I know what you must be thinking, what this fuckin’ arm makes me, and I hate it.”

Clint nodded along, wanting so badly to fight against everything that Bucky was saying but knowing that that wasn’t what Bucky needed. Clint wiggled his fingers beneath Bucky’s grip and Bucky let him go, freeing him to use his hands to pull at the sleeve of Bucky’s hoodie. 

“What-” Bucky started.

“I want you to take this off. You don’t have to, but I want you too. I wanna see more of you.” Clint was grateful that his voice didn’t give away how scrambled he was feeling inside. “Truth be told, and please don’t punch me or anything, I have yet to see a part of you that I didn’t like. That I don’t like. So if it’s cool, you did all that thinking and you’re right here, I think you should keep trusting me and take this off. Christ, is Hulk wearing clothes now or what? You’re swimming in this thing.” Clint threw in the last comment not for Bucky’s benefit, but because he felt like if he stopped talking he might be the one to skitter and run. 

Bucky complied, pulling his arm back as Clint pulled his sleeve forward. “Not gonna punch you. Why would I punch you?” 

Clint chose not to answer, taking that statement and question as a good sign. 

Once Bucky’s arm was free from the sleeve and hidden beneath the bulk of the hoodie covering his sternum, he held out his right hand. Clint grinned, and to his joy, Bucky smirked back. 

“What? This was your idea, gonna make you do the heavy lifting,” Bucky joked and within a second both sleeves of his hoodie were slack against his sides, his arms crossed across his abdomen from what Clint gathered as he watched four flesh fingers and four metal fingers grasp the bottom hem of the sweater from the inside. Clint suddenly found himself flooded with too many things at once. Excitement, fear, love, longing, the thrill of being given this honor by the man before him. He looked up and met Bucky’s eyes, which were wide and unblinking. 

Clint nodded, encouraging, and Bucky pulled his sweater up and over his head in one quick and fluid motion, tossing it to the side without looking. Clint watched Bucky revert back into the stance that he had taken on the other side of the door; hunched, arms wrapped around himself, doing his best to cover as much of his left arm with his right. Regardless, the metal was laid out before Clint’s eyes from the elbow up and he drank in the sight, wanting to say something reassuring but finding himself unable. 

Clint took two steps closer to Bucky, who was already barely two feet away, eyes locked onto the way the light reflected off of Bucky’s shoulder. The metal was shiny and unmarred, the red star gone and missing. Clint almost asked if Bucky had scraped it off himself before remembering that the princess in Wakanda had done some external upgrades and body work before Bucky had come back to them at the compound. 

Clint wanted to cover the smooth surface with his hand, felt the urge to leave his fingerprints all over the damn thing. 

Bucky stood stock still and Clint wasn’t even sure if he was breathing as he tiptoed slowly around Bucky until he was standing behind him. Bucky was wearing a black muscle shirt that hid most of the scarring, but some of the thick ropes of flesh peeked out near Bucky’s throat. 

“Can I touch?” Clint asked, and there it was, the tremor in his voice. Bucky sucked in a breath. 

“Please?”

Floored by the response, Clint reached out immediately. He ran his fingertips down the back of the prosthetic, impressed with how seamless the plates were, the path beneath his fingers smooth in spite of the visual ridges where they connected. When Clint’s fingertips reached Bucky’s elbow Bucky unraveled, dropping both of his arms straight down to his side. Clint’s hand kept trailing downward and he stepped closer, nearly closing the space between his chest and Bucky’s back. When his fingers reached Bucky’s palm Bucky moved quickly, grasping Clint’s hand and entwining their fingers, pulling Clint slightly and leaning back into him.

The contact made Clint dizzy, and when Bucky laid the back of his head against Clint’s collarbone his heart skipped several beats. 

“What are you thinking?” Bucky whispered, eyes closed. He squeezed Clint’s hand lightly. Clint swallowed. 

“I’m thinking that I still haven’t seen an ugly piece of you, Buck. I don’t think one exists. I think you were bullshittin’ me.” With the way they were positioned, Clint was practically breathing and speaking into Bucky’s right ear, and he felt Bucky shiver all over. 

“The scars-” Bucky started, and Clint groaned. 

“Fucking hell. Okay, you know what?” Clint let go of Bucky’s hand and quickly used both of his own to grasp at the seam where the shirt sleeve was sewn together at the top of Bucky’s shoulder. With one pull the fabric ripped easily, like paper in Clint’s fingers. When he let go the pieces fell, and Bucky was exposed. 

Bucky groaned, a small but mangled noise in his throat. “Christ, Clint. Fuck.”

“What?” Clint asked, eyes and blood on fire as he took in the sight of Bucky’s form in front of him. “If you’re mad about the shirt, I think I can afford to replace it.”

“No,” Bucky said and this time it sounded more like a growl. Bucky turned and opened his eyes, and Clint nearly fell to the floor with how black and blown Bucky’s pupils were. “That was...I liked that.”

Clint’s blood rushed in every direction in his body, and he quickly repeated the action on the other side of Bucky’s shirt. With nothing to hold it up the shirt slid down a bit, and Bucky took the liberty to pull it down with his hands and a shimmy of his body until he was as shirtless as Clint and looking delectable and as gorgeous as anything Clint had ever seen. 

“I can’t believe you had the audacity to be ashamed of any of...this,” Clint said, half playful as he used his hands to motion up and down Bucky’s body. “You’re a work of goddamn art. Goddammit, Bucky, you’re so fuckin’ pretty. Everything about you, so fuckin’ pretty.”

Bucky’s face went red and his fists balled at his sides. He stepped toward Clint quickly and before he could comprehend it, Clint was backed up against his own apartment wall, Bucky framing him in with both arms. Clint caught himself watching how the prosthetic moved, how it worked, how he could nearly see himself reflected in it, in Bucky, and a small whine stuck in his throat. 

“Ah, fuck. You like it, don’t you?” Bucky accused more than asked. Clint nodded, no use in denying it. 

“How? How can you like it knowing what it’s done? And these scars...no matter what arm is here or not, sweetheart, the scars ain’t goin’ nowhere soon.” Even though his voice was husky, it vibrated with insecurity.

Clint reached out with both hands, placing them on Bucky’s hips and yanking him forward until they were seamless from thighs to upper chest. The friction of Bucky against him sent a surge of eager pleasure up Clint’s spine and judging by the gasp that Bucky emitted just inches away from Clint’s mouth, he was enjoying it too. 

“I want you to look and listen to me right now, because I’m about to die if we don’t get to shucking the rest of these clothes real quick,” Clint bit out, grateful when Bucky huffed out a bit of laughter, “and I wanna say this before whatever happens, happens. You, James, are what makes me like the arm. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re a hero now, because you’re back and the Soldier is long gone. That guy? Fuck that guy’s arm. But he’s dead, baby, and you’re very, very much alive and you’re very, very fucking beautiful and sexy and perfect, down to every little seam in this badass arm of yours. And your scars? We’ve all got ‘em, so I say fuck em.” Clint leaned forward and placed his lips gently over the angry looking flesh where Bucky’s prosthetic connected to his flesh. He peppered a line of kisses upward until he was at the top of Bucky’s shoulder, where he gently sucked at the corded scar there, causing Bucky to groan wonderfully. Clint moved his lips upward to Bucky’s ear. 

“Now. You can haul me into that bedroom back there with that gorgeous, strong arm of yours, or you can grab your giant hoodie and go back into hiding. What’ll it be, Barnes?”

*

The next morning, nobody commented when Clint and Bucky ran into Steve’s staff meeting thirty seconds late. Nobody even commented when they made sure to take two empty seats next to each other. What did happen was that everybody tracked Bucky with their eyes and looked silently at one another with pleased, if shocked, expressions. After all, it was the first time any of them had seen Bucky wearing a t-shirt. Once the two of them were settled, Clint plastered on a giant, toothy grin and waved at everyone before nodding toward Steve, a sign to continue. 

The rest of the meeting went flawlessly if a little dully, and still nobody made any mention that anything was awry. 

Well, until Tony had to open his mouth, cutting Steve off mid-sentence. 

“Mr. Freeze, what in _Odin’s name_ is on your arm? Is that...is that Sharpie?”

Clint watched everyone swivel their chairs, watched Bucky’s face flush. Clint panicked for a few seconds...what was he supposed to do? Anything? He couldn’t just let Bucky sit there drowning while everyone stared-

“Yeah, Stark. Sure is. Care to share with the class what it is, this masterpiece on my arm?” Bucky challenged, fighting off a smile. 

Tony leaned in closer to look at the doodle on Bucky’s left shoulder. After a moment passed, Tony locked eyes with Clint, a shit eating grin spreading over his face. Rather than describe what Clint had drawn on Bucky’s shoulder at ass o’clock in the morning that morning, Tony snapped a photo with his StarkPhone and projected the image onto the wall for everyone to see. It was easy to make out the Sharpie red heart, with the purple arrow sticking through, the initials B.B. and C.B scribbled inside. 

There were groans, and a few surprised chuckles, a gasp from Steve and Wanda. Clint didn’t know how to feel, was trying to think of a wisecrack, but Bucky fixed everything when he leaned over and flung his right arm over Clint’s shoulders. 

“Ignore them, doll,” Bucky said loudly. “You made me feel like a masterpiece.”

Clint’s insecurities turned to ash and drifted away, replaced with a wink and a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> BINGO Square: Insecurity


End file.
